Broken
by Hatsu Yukiya
Summary: Why does a country exist if not to protect its people? China during the Tiananmen Square Massacre.


**A/N: Before we get started, I want to make a few things clear. I was hesitant about writing this at first. I am a fifteen-year-old all-American girl who generally writes humor fics in my spare time. I wasn't sure I could write a fic about the Tiananmen Square incident accurately. However, I did the best I could in the end. I hope the final result doesn't offend anyone. For the sake of the story, I did tweak some tiny things (for instance, the Chinese government wasn't allowing foreign reporters into the city for a while afterwords). Also, China won't have his -aru for the majority of this story, because the -aru is an accent and why would one have an accent speaking their own language? Unless he was speaking the Beijing dialect of Chinese, but I've decided he's not...**

**Please ignore the fact that there were no cell phones in 1989. Come on, America had a laptop during WWII and Holy Rome had an alarm clock. Serious or not, this is Hetalia.**

**Axis Powers Hetalia is the creation and property of Hidekaz Himaruya.**

It started with the death of one man. His name was Hu Yaobang, a high-up official in the Chinese Communist party. Not too long before his death, small protests had begun, pushing for social reform and the end of Communist China. Hu supported the protests and when he died the protesters gathered into a force of roughly 100,000 people-mainly university students and factory workers, young folks- and swarmed the day before his funeral to start the major protests in Tiananmen Square. The protesters demanded that the government reassess Hu's legacy. The protests had lasted seven weeks thus far.

Personally, China liked the guy. Although he would be flayed if he said it out loud, China had wanted the Communist regime to end for a while. In fact, he had been against it from the start. What an odd feeling it was, to fully reject what your leaders decided what made you, you. As the personification of China itself one would think that he would accept whatever change came with a welcoming smile.

That's not quite how it works, China mused to himself, attempting to walk down the street while weaving in between protesters. I wonder if I'm just old-fashioned? He chuckled quietly at this. Old, that's what I am. But shouldn't that mean I know what's best for my people?

China had thought a lot about this recently. He had been around a while, a fact he would admit only to himself. He had seen possibly every form of government go into effect at some point during his long life, and it irked him to know that his opinion on the matter would never be taken into account. Honestly, he had experience. How long did his boss think China had been alive? Maybe it was his looks; it was harder to take someone seriously when they didn't even look like they'd hit twenty.

A bead of sweat worked its way down China's forehead, and he pulled at his collar in discomfort. The early summer heat combined with the closely packed crowd made the nation question his own decision to wear long sleeves this day.

It was a world meeting day, which was why he was out and about in the first place and not back home avoiding his boss like he would normally be doing. It was also why he was wearing long sleeves; you need to look sharp for these things and the air conditioning in the meeting room made him uncomfortable.

China looked around. Crap, he thought. There were more people around than before. He must have taken a wrong turn while he was spaced out. He was further from Tiananmen Square itself now, where the main protest was taking place. If China was going to be honest with himself, he would say that if he didn't have to report to his boss daily he would be out holding signs with his citizens.

The nape of his neck was damp with sweat. Why did he keep his hair long again?

It suddenly occurred to China that his palms were slick as well. His heart was thumping loudly against his chest. What was this cold feeling in the pit of his stomach that had stopped him in his tracks? People bustled around him, oblivious to the small man standing still in the street with a horrible, foreboding feeling. What is it? What?

A gunshot rang out. Screams shortly followed.

In split seconds, the entire area was in chaos. China spun around in alarm, peering through the jostling crowd.

Tanks were advancing down on the protestors, backed by armored foot soldiers bearing guns. They were firing on the citizens.

China's heart dropped a thousand miles. He couldn't hear anything except for the shouts of men, screams of women, and the cries of children being pulled along by their parents.

Without thinking, he rushed towards the armada.

"Stop!" he yelled as loud as he could over the mechanical sounds and screams. "What are you doing?"

What was his army doing? Why were they during on his citizens? Is this...the realization dawned on China like a blow to the stomach. Is this his leader's way of dealing with the out-of-control protests? By shooting them down? Cold fury rose up in the nation like bile.

One of the soldiers acknowledged him. He raised his gun and fired once at what he thought was just another protestor, another dog to be put down.

China barely felt the bullet enter his shoulder, though it pushing his small frame backwards several feet. Then the pain registered, blood spreading to stain the soft green fabric of his cheongsam. China bit back a howl of pain. Holding his shoulder tightly with one hand, he whipped around and glared determinedly into the bedlam.

Through hazy eyes he saw a woman carrying a baby, struggling to run as fast as the others. He made his way towards her as quickly as he could, and grabbed her wrist to pull her along out of the line of fire. The woman twisted around to see behind her.

"Don't look back, just run!" China commanded at her. She was taking wider strides now, enabling the nation to pull her faster.

God, how stupid was he? Did he think ordinary soldiers would know who he was? What he was? Did he really think they would stop for him?

"There, you can go by yourself now," he huffed when they were a few blocks up. He let go of the woman, unknowingly leaving a bloody imprint on her wrist.

"Y-you're...," the woman panted, wide eyes staring at his shoulder.

"Don't worry about me, just go," he snapped, pushing her forward. Not checking to see if she obeyed him, China turned back around in the direction of the troops, and ran back. A soldier was advancing on a couple university students. Dropping down onto his good arm, China swung his legs up and kicked the gun out of their attacker's hands. Taking advantage of the brief distraction, he grabbed their arms and ran them to safety. Then he went back. Any time he saw someone in serious trouble, he would repeat the process. It seemed endless, and he was rapidly growing exhausted.

These were his people. If he couldn't save them from something like this, then what could he do?

Pain was burning throughout China's body now. He shoulder coupled with the rising old age symptoms were making it difficult to run. China knew that once this was over, his body would also ache with the mourning of his people. He noticed, even through all the confusion, that his hair had shrugged loose of its ponytail, dark threads fluttered around his face.

China could see people on bicycles lifting limp bodies and riding away with them. Anybody who fell was picked up.

His eyesight was getting fuzzy. Pain was overwhelming all his senses.

I can't stop, he thought desperately. I have to get everyone away.

Blood was gushing out of his shoulder even more now, running down his arm and onto the pavement. A dark red haze surrounded his vision. China's running slowed, his breathing becoming more labored, until eventually he stopped moving completely. The nation collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. The world went black in seconds, and he fell to the ground. China was dimly aware of being hoisted up, probably onto a bicycle like the others, before he lost consciousness completely.

xXx

Everyone at the world meeting was dead silent, staring at the television screen in shock. During the lunch break America had gotten bored and switched the television on to the news. They all had been greeted by the anchor informing in a slightly trembling voice that the Chinese army had attacked its citizens. Just minutes before, a group of them had been quietly discussing why they thought China himself hadn't shown up to the meeting.

"…Bloody hell," England breathed, running a hand through his hair. "I guess now we know why he didn't show." He got no response. Nobody had anything to say.

Despite the still tension, nobody notices Japan stand up and silently leave the room. In the hallway, he flipped open his phone and dialed his boss' number.

"Hello?" a gruff voice spoke from the end of the line.

"Ah, hello sir," Japan said quietly. "I apologize, but I have a favor to ask."

"I assume this is about what's on the news right now?"

The Asian country swallowed. "Yes sir. I wanted to ask if I could maybe—"

"You may not go over to Beijing," the older man snapped. Japan's eyes widened.

"But sir—"

"We have good relations with the Chinese. If I allowed you to go over there, or if they heard you disapproved, our relations would suffer. Do you understand?"

Silence.

"Japan?"

Japan didn't answer and instead just closed his phone, seething.

xXx

The next day, all the countries gathered in the meeting room despite there being no meeting. It had become a habit to gather there when things were serious. Despite all the daily bickering amongst themselves, all would admit– if only to their inner conscious–that they were worried when things went down in someone else's home.

Those who saw China most often had tried calling him countless times, only to receive the voice mail. He had not contacted anyone, and the news was constantly kept on to see if he would turn up. The Asian countries were lumped together in silence.

A few of them had had a conversation with their bosses similar to Japan's. That is, denied permission to go to Beijing and try to find the missing nation.

The room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and everyone jumped violently in their seats when a phone ring went off loudly. Japan's pocket vibrated.

He slowly extracted the phone from his pocket. "Unknown number", it read. He answered as every person in the room turned their eyes to him.

"Hello?"

"Are you Kiku Honda?" a woman's voice asked.

Japan's eyebrows raised in surprise. Not many people called asking for that name.

"Yes, I am. Who is this?"

"We have a relative of yours in the hospital here."

He frowned. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any..." Then it dawned on him. "Excuse me, where are you calling from?"

"Beijing, China. I'm sorry, but can we make this quick? We don't have international calling here." The woman's voice was clipped and short.

"Beijing," Japan breathed weakly. The room erupted in excitement. He shoved one finger in his ear, blocking out the noise. Vietnam hissed "Shut up so we can hear!"

"Who did you say was there?" Japan asked.

"He didn't give us his name, just yours and your number. Look, I'm out of time and we have a lot of people to treat here. Could you come pick him up? Thanks."

Japan opened his mouth to ask if China was hurt, but before he got the chance the woman cut the connection. The minute the Asian closed his phone he was set upon by anxious countries.

"Who was that? Who was that?" Thailand pressed.

Japan sighed. "That was a hospital in Beijing."

"Aniki's in a hospital?" Korea yelped. The room descended back into chaos as the others interrogated the Japanese for details.

"What happened to him?" Vietnam demanded.

"I don't know, the lady hung up before I could ask." Japan's voice held an impatient edge. "If you will excuse me…" He stood up and moved towards the door.

"Hey, Japan your boss said you couldn't–" Taiwan was cut off by the click the door made as it closed.

xXx

Later, Japan pulled his rental car into the hospital parking lot. The place really did look busy; people were bustling in and out, some carrying limp bodies and crying in rapid Chinese.

He walked up to the receptionist. "Excuse me," he said softly. "I'm Kiku Honda..."

The receptionist started at this. "You are? Oh thank God. My name's Jun. We spoke on the phone." She stood and began leading him down the hall.

Japan nodded woodenly. He recognized her voice. "I'm not trying to be insensitive, we just have a lot of people constantly coming in and we need the space," she was saying. "If someone's well enough to move then it would be more convenient…"

"May I ask what happened?" Japan asked, anxiety twisting in his stomach, despite his best efforts to stifle it.

Jun waved her hand passively, but her slightly trembling voice betrayed her emotion. "Same as everyone else. He got shot." Her voice pitched lower. "He's lucky. Lots of people were in critical condition after yesterday, and most of them died. Your friend–"

"His name's Yao," Japan interrupted as politely as he could. "I don't know why he didn't tell you before.

"I wondered too, but it doesn't matter," Jun said. "Anyway, he had lost a lot of blood when he came in. He was out cold until late this morning."

"I see," Japan murmured.

"Here you are," Jun announced. She stuck her head in the doorway and said, "Hey, Mr. Honda's here to take you home." Turning back to Japan, she said "Right, well, he hasn't said much. Thanks again anyway."

Japan went inside, closing the door behind him. China wasn't facing him, and instead leaned one elbow on the windowsill next to his bed. White bandages are visible under his shirt, and his dark hair spilled loose over his shoulders.

"Are you alright?" the Japanese asked softly. China shrugged. "Fine, aru," he replied in a low, hoarse voice. "As much as I can be."

Japan nodded in understanding. "What happened? I mean, how did you end up here?"

No answer. Japan didn't know what he expected, though thinking about it now he was certain he already knew the answer.

"Alright," he started again. "Then why did you call me?"

Another shrug. China shifted uncomfortably. "Just who I thought of, aru."

"Everyone was worried about you."

"That's new." There was a hint of bitterness in his surrogate brother's voice. Japan got the hint; he didn't want to talk about it.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

China shook his head. He turned to face Japan. His amber eyes were dull and shadowed. "Could I stay with you for a little while?"

"That's fine."

"Thanks."

**A/N:**

**Again, please ignore the anachronism screws and historical inaccuracies, I did the best I could.**

**I could write another chapter. It depends on the response I get.**

**"Jun" is a reference to my good friend Moelolo's fic Haircut! in which Jun is a woman who went to medical school but never finished. It made sense to me that she would be the receptionist.**

**Thank you for reading and please review!**


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